"If you were to read Plato with attention," said the old man, "you would acquire the habit of seizing the point of a parable."
"I have read the New Testament."
"But this is philosophy."
"And I am sure," said Norman, "that had Plato written that story you have told me, it would have acquired a great reputation. But as for the connexion of the parable and your remark, I conceive that in both you show a dislike of the picturesque, or pretty considering it the foe of beauty."
"The picturesque, my son, is the beautiful but only a section thereof. In this fable I have represented it as miniature beauty. The other fable of the picturesque I have no need to write; it is written over the world from the columns of Baalbek to the arches of Tintern and blazed on every stone of Alsander."
"You mean the picturesque which is decaying beauty?"
"I do," said the old man.
"I understand you, venerable Sir, but why are you so passionate about it all?"
"Don't you see, boy, I love Alsander with a love a little different from the love of the tourist who comes to photograph the ruins. Oh! I have worked for her; but she is dying, dying, dying like a rose on a sapless tree."
"I am afraid you are right," said Norman, sadly. "After what you have shown me I have no hope for unfortunate Alsander."